Once Upon A Spell
by graypearl
Summary: Sometimes art imitates life, and life imitates a fairy tale.


Once Upon A Spell

Summary: Sometimes, art imitates life, and life imitates a fairy tale.

Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Harry Potter universe.

Warnings: Angst. I am saying no more lest I give the ending away.

Reviews: Appreciated greatly.

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Harry Potter sat on his perch by the edge of the cliffs. His crooked fingers clutched at his knobby knees as he stared blankly ahead at the waters crashing far beneath him. He did not feel the salty breeze which wound its way in from the ocean, nor did he take note of the storm clouds drifting overhead, for his mind and spirit were far away from the place where he currently rested.

_Gather round, children, and listen closely to what I have to say, for this story has been passed from witch to child since before I was born. _

_Once upon a spell, there was a kind wizard who had lived in solitude for all of his days. He kept a garden full of herbs and a Kneazle named Sneezewort for company. This would have been the beginning, middle, and end of his existence were it not for a young maiden who one day traipsed into his garden._

_She was a small creature, and delicate, with her head full of warm thoughts. She never paid mind to her fellow villagers who feared the man living at the edge of the forest, nor did the rumors of darkest sorcery and midnight revelry reach her tender ears. She would have never chanced upon her distant neighbor were it not for her mother lying on her deathbed and her need for yarrow to ease the fever._

The flowers grew thick around Harry, and their smell was strong even through the bitter tang of the waters. Butterflies and bees lazily drifted among them, darting away rapidly when they sensed the presence of danger. They always returned, drawn by the promise of the opening buds.

_The man, shocked though he was by her presence, generously granted her what she asked, and she was on her way back within the hour. That might have been the end of it, children, if it were not for the way the Three Sisters of Fate weave their web._

_The moon waxed and waned three times before the two chanced upon each other again. The maiden once more traveled far from home for the sake of her still ailing mother, yet it was in the fields closest to her village that she found what she really needed. The kind wizard looked up at the sound of her feet and gazed once more upon her countenance. When he realized the depth of her love for her mother, he agreed to aid her in finding a cure. He returned with her to the village late that night, using his skill in the Healing Arts to restore the old woman's vigor. _

_Again, their association was in danger of ending, were it not for the gentle heart of the young maiden. Daily she brought him a fresh bouquet of flowers to thank him once again for his kind deed, and daily she sat with him through the silence that gathered around his home._

Though the waters crashed below, and though birds called in the air above, the place was eerily quiet. Muggles said the place was left for ghosts, while wizards claimed it belonged to memories, but to Harry, it was his own.

_The pair danced the lover's dance of courtship, and their days were filled with the glances, touches, and silent whispers that only those charmed by the wand of Cupid know. When his lover was away, the wizard longed for something to bring her near, even if only in spirit._

_And so, he picked up a paintbrush, as his forebears had, and began to detail the face of his dearest. Making dyes from his herbs, dutifully he represented her smallish nose and her uneven eyes and the freckles that dotted her cheeks, but even as she giggled back at him, he was unsatisfied._

_However, the maiden was much moved by the piece, and she decided that they should hang it in the bedroom of their first shared cottage. When she brought her lips to his, he tasted devotion and the faintest hint of tea._

A heavy taste drifted through the air whenever clouds rushed in to the land. It was something that all who visited the cliffs learned to recognize, for it tasted of despair.

_Though the two were married in the spring time between the rows of fennel by the village priest, all was not well in their fairy tale, for later that night the villagers came to call upon the husband and wife with accusations of sorcery. They burned the place, with the couple inside, and it was only a fit of accidental magic which saved the wizard. Yet he despaired at his fate, for all traces of the one he loved were gone._

_After several months, the man dropped even deeper into depression, seeking a way to bring his lover back. And though the villagers maligned him, he was a Light Wizard who would not give in to the lure of Darkest Necromancy. Instead, he drew her, he painted her, he sought to memorialize her in any fashion available. And though his new dwelling was filled with every image of her, he found no satisfaction, no relief from his loss. It was only when washing his brushes in a riverbed that he came upon what he had sought._

_He took the large stone from the river, cleaned it, and shaped it into her face. He chiseled down from the head a body, working tirelessly through the long days and nights. And she slowly came alive from his hands-- her eyes twinkled just so, as they once had, and he almost imagined that he could see her soul printed on her face. It was many months before he finished, for he was very weakened near the end. He poured himself into her, returning to her the force she had lost. And so, when he had finished on the last day, scraping and chiseling the final touches of her toes, he did not rise again._

_Be wary, my children, be wary indeed. For even to this day, it is believed that the magic of stonemasonry can carry enough power to snatch away your very life. Funny, that, for isn't the same said of love? Now, Ronald, be a dear and fetch me some pumpkin juice, won't you?_

On Harry's shoulder sat a bird, and at Harry's feet sat a plaque. When the bird had thoroughly perused its surroundings, it hopped down to the dirt and stared at the metal piece it had found. It poked its beak at the metal, which read:

Harry Potter  
July 31, 1980- December 18, 1998  
Artist Ronald Weasley   
March 1, 1980- January 18, 1999

Seeing that it could not move the piece, it instead flew off in front of the storm clouds, guiding their way to the sunset. 


End file.
